You have been contemplating the least and most awful of your confessions. Sin is a versatile thing. So grotesque, as the Illuminated Gentleman's. So trivial, as the Soft-Hearted Widow's. But what's this? Your goldfish has stopped swimming in its circles. Its mouth is slack.
Turning from your gaze, it swims into the little coral fixture in the middle of its bowl to contemplate the awful breadth of human sin. Thereafter, whenever someone puts their face near its glass, it swims away, thudding fruitlessly into the opposite side of its bowl.